


Loss

by DJ_unicornsrgr8



Series: Peter & Bucky Are Pals [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Flashbacks, Free Virtual Tissues, Hair Club, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Pancakes, Superfamily, Survivor Guilt, emotional distress, it's a sad one, what-ifs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 19:25:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13394601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJ_unicornsrgr8/pseuds/DJ_unicornsrgr8
Summary: What happened to Aunt May?It wasn't long or particularly drawn-out. He couldn't run to her, hold her in his arms. He wasn't even there. He wasn't even there, yet he saw it just the same. For some reason, that made it worse.





	Loss

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Long Road Begins at Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5339822) by [owlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlet/pseuds/owlet). 



> WARNING: traumatic description of character death and some blood in a nightmare scene! (If you'd like to know more, you can comment below or in another fic in this series. I don't want this to be bad for anyone!)

_Peter’s eyes shot open. He was lying down, but he knew he wasn’t in his bed. There were heavy metal chains around his wrists and ankles, and a strap was fitted tightly around his forehead. But then again, a voice in the back of his head said, cutting through his panic, he_ could _be in his bed. This could be another sick nightmare. It felt odd, wishing he was inside one. Usually, he’d rather be anywhere else._

_Something touched his hand, and he screamed. Not a nightmare, then. He could never scream inside in his nightmares. Fear shot through him like a round of bullets, and he strained against the strap around his head._

_“Peter,” someone hissed. “Peter.”_

_He writhed, trying to find the source. He saw nothing._ He saw nothing. He couldn’t see. _He screamed again, just because he could._ Catharsis, _his brain provided between rushes of adrenaline. Something scraped the bottom of his foot, and he jerked hard against the chains binding him to the table. (It was too hard to be a bed, he thought.)_

_“Peter,” the voice said again._

_“Who are you?” Peter managed between rapid, shallow breaths. “What do you want?”_

_“Kill,” the voice said. “I want to kill.”_

_Peter was going to die. He was fourteen, and he was going to die. He hoped May would take care of herself without him. He forced himself to inhale, then exhale._

_“Alright,” he said, voice shaking as he resigned, and the… thing laughed._

_“Not you, Peter. Too simple.”_

_Peter felt something being ripped off his eyes, and light flooded his vision. He cringed against it, slamming his eyes shut. When he could finally bear to squint, he realized he was looking at a screen. And on that screen… was May. May, strapped to a table like his own, chains around her wrists and ankles, a strap around her head. She was crying, tears glistening on her cheeks, and Peter could see her mouth moving. Begging._

_“_ No _,” he said, horrified. “Please, no. I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt her.”_

_There was no response. On the screen, something moved in the shadows behind May, suspiciously metallic and sharp._

_“No!” he shouted. “May!”_

_“People are coming for you, Peter,” the voice said. “We don’t have much time.”_

_The shadows on the screen shifted again, and Peter could see the silhouette of a gun. He thrashed against his restraints with all his might, trying to get to May. The chains didn’t even shift._

_“No!”_

_“Yes,” the voice hissed. “Kill.”_

_The gun was leveled at May’s head, and she closed her eyes. Peter could see her shaking. He screamed, writhing furiously. The chains bit at his wrists, and he felt something in his arm snap. He screamed again, just as the trigger was pulled. Air left his lungs in a rush as he stared at the brain matter and blood spattered on the screen._

_“NO! No no no no no-”_

_“Peter!”_

“Peter!”

Peter sat bolt upright, choking on a breath. His throat was sore, and his eyes swollen. He felt hands on his shoulders, pulling him into a warm embrace, and he let himself be held. His shoulders were shaking hard, and he felt a phantom pain in his wrists. 

“Peter,” someone said again, and Peter buried his face in the warm shoulder that he was pressed against. He let out a dry sob, gripping onto whatever he could find; this time, shirt fabric. 

“May,” he croaked, and he felt a hand circling his back gently.

“I’m sorry, Peter.” It was Tony’s voice. He hated to bother Tony, but in that moment, he let selfishness take over. He didn’t want to let go. He felt safe in Tony’s arms. He would apologize later. His sense of time was skewed, but he knew that he must’ve stayed there for over an hour before he heard the door creak open, and Tony stiffened slightly around him.

“Barnes,” he heard Tony mutter. “Not a good time.”

“Pepper says she will kill you herself if you don’t get on the jet for DC now.”

“I’m not leaving him.”

He didn’t catch Bucky’s reply. All he knew was that there were soft fingers brushing through his hair, straightening it, and one of his own hands was enveloped by a metal one. He remained firmly conscious, but drifted in and out of awareness, listening to low voices murmur above him. He didn’t complain when he was lifted from Tony and pulled against Bucky. He felt a kiss on the top of his head, a squeeze of his shoulder, and his bedroom door was pulled shut after reluctantly retreating footsteps. Bucky continued to run his fingers through Peter’s hair, and Peter could feel himself draining. 

The next part was always the worst. Nothing. Somehow, feeling nothing was far more exhausting than fear. Peter spared a moment to acknowledge this before slipping away into the oblivion. Seconds turned to minutes. Minutes, to hours. He didn’t try to move until sunlight pierced the windows, slowly illuminating the room. Only then did he tilt his head, ever-so-slightly, and peer up at Bucky’s face. He found Bucky watching him, surprisingly soft-eyed, faintly assessing.

“Sorry,” Peter whispered, his voice hoarse and only half there. Bucky shook his head, disallowing the apology. Peter let his muscles go limp, and his head rolled back to its original position. Bucky seemed content to let him sit there, still, for as long as he needed. He didn’t deserve such generosity, he thought to himself. Bucky had better things to do. As if he could read Peter’s mind, Bucky’s arms tightened around him. Something dripped onto his shirt, and he realized he was crying. Bucky wiped the tears away carefully, his metal fingertips skidding across Peter’s cheeks. Peter opened his mouth to apologize again, but Bucky shushed him.

“Pancakes,” Bucky said. “We need pancakes.”

Peter couldn’t argue with that. He let Bucky slide out from under him and stand up; he took Bucky’s hand and followed suit. Bucky wrapped a protective arm around his shoulders and led him down the hall to the elevators, which took them up to the shared floor. Nobody was there; Peter guessed it was pretty early in the morning. Out the window, the sky was still pink from the sunrise.

They entered the kitchen; Peter was faintly surprised when Bucky scooped him up and set him on the edge of the counter, near the stove but not too close. He watched as Bucky set a pan on the burner, then began mixing ingredients in a bowl from memory. An egg, butter, milk, flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt were all slowly added, making a batter that sizzled as it was poured into the hot pan. Bucky pulled two plates and two forks from the cupboards, and a bottle of maple syrup from the fridge. Bubbles began to form in the cooking pancakes, and Bucky flipped them quickly.

“Orange juice or milk.”

“Orange juice,” Peter replied quietly. 

Bucky grabbed a carton of juice from the fridge and paused to check the pancakes before pouring Peter a glass and pressing it into his hand. Peter took a small sip, the liquid soothing his rough throat. Bucky plated the first pancakes, drizzling syrup on top and setting the plate in Peter’s lap. Peter drank more juice before putting down his glass and taking a bite of pancake. It was light and fluffy, and he felt his stomach settle as he ate. It had been twisting since he woke up. Bucky fetched himself a glass of water, keeping an eye on the second batch of pancakes. He glanced over to Peter.

“Good?”

Peter nodded. “Thanks.”

Bucky squeezed his knee before moving to flip the pancakes. They were slightly browner than the last, but nowhere close to burned. Peter fidgeted slightly as Bucky set down the spatula and leaned against the counter as the pancakes cooked. He looked up at Peter and tilted his head, waiting for Peter to speak, but Peter lowered his gaze. Bucky didn’t press, just reached up and pushed Peter’s hair out of his face before putting the second batch of pancakes on a plate for himself. There was still some batter left, which he poured to make a final pancake. 

“I miss her,” Peter finally said, his voice cracking. He shoved a bite of pancake in his mouth in attempt to mask it.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky replied. He set the empty batter bowl in the sink and hopped up on the counter to sit next to Peter. Their knees brushed together, and Peter scooted closer. Bucky tucked an arm around him neatly.

“I couldn’t save her.”

Bucky traced small circles on the back of Peter’s neck, and Peter leaned into his shoulder.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bucky told him, quiet but firm. Peter drew in a shaky breath, exhaling slowly. Bucky reached over and used his metal hand to flip the last pancake; he’d left the spatula on the other side of the stove.

“If I-”

“No,” Bucky said, cutting Peter off as gently as he could. “No what-ifs. You can’t do that to yourself.”

“But I _do_ ,” said Peter. “I… I can’t stop thinking, if I had just… done _something_ differently, maybe she’d still be…”

“It was beyond your control,” Bucky responded softly. “You couldn’t have known.”

Peter’s lip trembled, and Bucky ran his fingers through the boy’s hair.

“Why is it always me?” Peter said, his breath hitching.

“I don’t know,” replied Bucky, pulling him closer. He trembled, burying his face in the soft fabric of Bucky’s shirt once again, and Bucky rested his chin on top of Peter’s head. They stayed like that, perched on the counter, Peter hiding from his grief in Bucky’s chest until Steve found them several hours later, their half-eaten pancakes cold and discarded. Peter’s face was red and puffy; he was saved of a barrage of concern from Steve by a well-placed glare from Bucky.

\----

He was glad it was a Saturday, he thought later, as he sat in the living room surrounded by Hair Club. They were watching cartoons and painting each other’s nails; his toenails were now a soft pink, and his big toes were decorated with smiley-faces. His mouth had twitched slightly upward when Hill had revealed them to him, and she’d looked quite proud. 

It wasn’t a _good_ day, but his friends tamped down the guilt and pain to make it more bearable. They let him be quiet and subdued; they hugged him and carded fingers through his hair and pressed kisses to the top of his head. All little gestures, but they helped. Finally, he thought, despite his losses, he didn’t feel alone.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a short but sad one, folks. Virtual tissues are free to all who need them. Thank you for reading; comments are appreciated and suggestions are welcome. Hugs!


End file.
